Lavender
by Riddelly
Summary: Mary Morstan never grows attached to her assignments. In fact, she completely separates herself from them, even going so far as to use pseudonyms while working. The name she said to him was Anthea.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N** _I'm as big of a Johnlock shipper as the next person, but if Mary is brought into the BBC Sherlock canon, I'd love for her to turn out to be Anthea. I mean, come on, Anthea is awesome. Anyways, I wanted to write out my take on how that might happen, resulting in this._

**Rated T** _for language and violent references_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

_1._

June in London isn't particularly warm on an average year. Not cold, exactly—_cold, _as a term, stays confined to the earlier months, January, February, March—when snow is thick in the air and ice constantly underfoot despite the city's constant efforts to keep the place clean and safe. _(Like the darkened metropolis could ever stay free of lurking dangers.) _But June, June is a month of transition. Gradually shifting into summer, welcoming the tentative heat, the last hints of frost becoming hard to imagine in their long-faded state. The coldness is departing without the warmth arriving, and what's left behind is a sharp sort of chill, stark bleakness under a sun whose light shines icy.

It is June 17th, and the city is mourning.

Not everyone in London knows, but the press and television have tried as hard as they can to make it so. His face is everywhere: the face of Sherlock Holmes, heavy eyebrows, chiseled cheekbones, pale skin, silvery green eyes. Scowling. Wary. Peering out from the surfaces of newspapers left in garbage bins, glowering down on diners at a breakfast joint.

The publicity is exhausting, especially considering that there's nothing to lament.

Mary Morstan notes this to herself as she passes the most recent of four pedestrians with a newspaper tucked under his arm, the inked-in curls of Sherlock's tousled head just barely visible amongst the heavy pages. This much attention is something that she hates to deal with, seeing as, like her boss, she prefers to work in the most covert manner possible. Difficult when the business she's currently wrapped up in is displayed in seemingly every public location that finds it fitting to feature a dead man's visage.

It's frustrating, because now all of London knows what he looks like, and that means that someone's all the more likely to notice that he's _not _freezing in the morgue of St. Bartholomew's hospital, but rather tucked away in a mansion in Switzerland—or, at least, Mary reflects with a quick glance towards her watch, _hopefully. _She's learned far too well from her observations of him that he gets bored easily, and the walls of said mansion are more likely than not to be riddled with bullet holes at this point, the result of his disinterest in his current situation.

While Sherlock is lazing away, though, his brother is doing the opposite. Mycroft worked hard to ensure that the younger Holmes could properly fake his suicide, but it wasn't over when he jumped off the hospital roof. There are all manner of official documents to deal with, funerals to avoid, morticians to bribe, and Mycroft needs Mary's full time, promising wearily that he can pay her extra if she needs it for the additional hours.

She's not dealing with something as simple as paperwork, though. Which is why her gait is slightly less brisk than usual—she's letting her feet drag, letting her enthusiasm drag, because she honestly doesn't know whether she's up to the task that Mycroft has given her. Of course she's used to _watching _people—it's most of what her job entails, in fact; tracking subjects of Mycroft's interests, selecting a nice-looking black car to come pick them up in, and bringing them to wherever her boss is waiting.

_(She always uses fake names. Leila, Jody, Madeline, Anthea.)_

This is different, though. She can still hear Mycroft's voice echoing in her ears as she hesitates at a street corner, ignoring an empty soda can that rolls past her feet in the insistent wind. He was almost apologetic when he told her—he knew that she didn't want to do this, but he _"Didn't have anyone better—"_

_"—You're the only one who's associated with him before, Ms. Morstan, other than myself, and I have much bigger things to be taking care of. I know it's not much, but there's no one else to do the job." _

_"You want me to keep an eye on John Watson?" _

_"Somewhat. I have connections with his therapist, so I'll be giving you her records, and keeping them up to date—he's returned to her, which is at least a smart move. It's an unnecessary complication, you see, but I'm concerned for Dr. Watson. He was very attached to my brother, and, well… you know that we can't possibly tell him the truth; he simply can't be trusted not to slip up." _

_"Of course, sir." _

_"Good, yes. Well, you see, he has a history of emotional damage. Some call it post-traumatic stress disorder; I know otherwise. John Watson has a very unique mind, a very strong mind, but not one immune to damage. Something like this could push him over the edge, and it could result in… health risks." _

_"Depression?" _

_"Possibly depression, or something of a similar vein. I'm not going to rule out the idea of him… following in his flatmate's footsteps, if you garner my meaning."_

_"So, make sure that he doesn't end up on that roof, himself." _

_"Precisely. That's what I'm going to ask you to do, Ms. Morstan. It could end up unnecessary to do more than watch him—of course you'll have access to the usual cameras, and I've had a couple more planted in 221b Baker Street, additionally. If you see him acting oddly, do what you need—as I mentioned, I have ways to contact Dr. Ella Thompson, and there should be ways to anonymously or at least subtly communicate to her what she should be watching for. Hopefully, this won't be a problem at all. But Sherlock will most likely choose to make his return, eventually, and we want to make sure that Watson is still healthy and breathing when he does come back." _

_"Of course, sir. I'll get to it right away." _

_"Excellent. I'll have the cameras hooked up to the computer in your usual office, then, they should be there by the time you arrive… record what you can't watch live, view it in fast motion, if you must. Just don't miss a single minute—that much time could be vital." _

The light switches from a dismal red to an equally drab green. Mary reaches up absentmindedly to adjust the mahogany scarf draped loosely along her shoulders, heels clicking as she starts across the street. It really is a cold day, she reflects once more—too cold to be dressing like this. No matter, though; the office building that she spends most of her time in is only a block or so away now, and she's sure she has a heavier coat stowed there somewhere. Her breath mists in the air and weaves in front of her, reaching the door of the building before she does and fogging up the brass numbers arranged on it. She reaches into the pocket of her woolen skirt, fingers running over the edges of several key chains stuffed inside—keys that, if some branches of the government knew her to possess, she'd surely be arrested for. It takes several seconds to locate the right one, and she then hastens to let herself in.

It's much warmer inside, which she breathes a sigh of relief to acknowledge. The lobby is Spartan, plain, but still manages to echo a subtle sense of wealth, like many of Mycroft's establishments. There's a secretary behind a wide desk that spans across the length of the room, but she and Mary mutually ignore one another as the latter paces over to an elevator and allows herself up onto the third floor, the location of her personal office.

_John Watson,_ she reflects idly as the lift ascends, a gentle beep issuing as it passes each level. She doesn't remember much about John Watson—his face melted into all the others; even on the day when she had delivered him to Mycroft, he'd been her second pickup of the afternoon, the first of which was a dark-faced criminal with access to far too much money for his own good. Watson took about the average attitude when confronted with Mary—_(Anthea. That was the name she chose for herself that time. She'd never used it before, and hasn't since.)_—pathetically flirty, blankly confused, entirely ignorant.

Mundane.

But if Mycroft doesn't want him to die, she supposes that it's her job as well to care, and so she forces a sense of determination on as she strides out of the lift, into her room, which is waiting across the hall.

It's her own space, but she keeps it as free of personal belongings as possible. This is her work, and she wants to be sure to completely differentiate it from her home, because they're two very separate places—she's not even the same _person _here as she is there, not really. At home, she's Mary Morstan, a young woman with too much money and not enough time on her hands, with a fondness for medical dramas and pedicures and Brontë novels. At work, she's nameless, referred to only by her surname if any, a devoted worker who never questions her orders and always keeps her tasks carefully ordered and prioritized and thinks in numbers instead of images.

_(She's not Mycroft's only young female worker, but she's damn well one of the best.)_

And this room reflects Ms. Morstan, not Mary. The carpet is pale cream and flat, even though she personally prefers them absurdly fluffy. A swivel chair is parked in front of a dark wood desk hosting with a top-line computer, humming softly, a yellow light on its sleek side indicating sleep mode. The walls, rather than being taken up by artful papering or choice framed images, are entirely covered by file cabinets and bookshelves stocked up with bulging folders. The only side clear of paper stacks is that right behind her computer—arranged across it instead are four television screens, wide and thin, each currently showing a different angle of the same room. 221b Baker Street, presumably.

Unwrapping the long scarf from her neck, she paces across the room, letting the door shut behind her and tilting her head up, drinking in the color images playing out before her. The first screen is focused on a bedroom—twin bed, dresser, window with a heavy curtain pulled over it that leaves the space in relative darkness. The second has a street view, one that she's more familiar with. She remembers only faintly, but this is the door that she dropped Dr. Watson outside of nearly two years ago. It's relatively nonchalant, painted green and tucked next to an awning for "Speedy's Sandwich Bar and Café." Visible on the final two screens are more interior views, a haphazardly arranged flat that seems to have acid stains on every surface and a bright yellow smiley face spray-painted onto the wall over the slender sofa.

The place looks empty.

It's almost disconcerting. Because Mary isn't the type to be put on edge easily—she sees much, much more than a woman her age should. She's seen death, she's seen illness, drugs, violence, crime. She's used to them by now, in fact. Barely gives them a second thought. She can't afford to associate her emotions with her job—she learned that long, long ago.

But this… this is just _upsetting. _Watson's not even home right now, and yet the dusty sense of loneliness is undeniable. And, for the first time, she can almost _feel _what Mycroft fears will become of the doctor—if she were him, if she lived in a place as dismal as this without the fiery energy of Sherlock Holmes _(She has met Sherlock Holmes, two times, to be precise. They were not altogether pleasant experiences, but she supposes they were necessary.) _to keep it alight, then she would absolutely have a therapist on call.

She gives her head a slight shake, attempting to dislodge the ridiculous thoughts piling inside of it. It may be her assignment to watch John Watson's actions, but she can't see into his mind, and there's no reason that she should try to.

So she searches for other work to distract herself with, to occupy her attention rather than letting her watch the screens pointlessly and broodingly. A few file folders are stacked on top of her desk, beside the keyboard of the sleeping computer, each stamped with a name or coded project title. More than one has the words _TOP SECRET _scrawled almost casually across it, like a last-minute reminder of her high status among Mycroft's operatives.

She sighs, settling into the swivel chair and letting it creak underneath her. The first folder is a pale rosy cream color, titled _Reginald Walters _in dark blue ink. Upon opening it, she discovers a number of photographs, all depicting a scowling, classically evil-looking man—heavy brows, pale skin, dark hair shot through with silver, thin streak of a mustache. A couple are high-quality, but the rest appear to be taken from grainy security cameras, and mostly show the man on the streets or stepping into buildings, almost always with a paranoid glance over his shoulder. After the series of photographs, the folder is packed tight with text documents—briefings on the man, suspicious activities, shady organizations that he's apparently involved in. At the end, a Post-It note is stuck to the final sheet of paper—scrawled across it in high-quality ink are a few brief words in Mycroft Holmes's distinctive script.

_Meeting needed Jun 17—Diogenes priv. room_

A welcome distraction. She squints into the faint reflection on her computer's dark screen, fluffing her hair slightly. There's nothing that needs to be changed about her appearance, she figures, for a procedural _"retrieval"—_Mycroft's euphemistic term for what is, more or less, a kidnapping.

She barely spares a glance at the still TV screens as she rises again, tucking the folder under her arm and pulling out one specific sheet, printed with the usual haunts of Reginald Walters. It's good—calming to get back into a usual job, other than staring at the eerily blank screens and allowing the opportunity for something almost resembling emotion to climb up inside of her.

If he asks, she decides, her name will be Elaina.

Keeping that in mind, she leaves, and doesn't give another thought to Dr. John Watson for several hours after.

* * *

When she comes back, he's at home.

She freezes for a moment in the doorway, her eyes wide and one hand grasping her other wrist, which is slightly bruised from one of Walters's alarmingly violent escape attempts. _(He was far from compliant, and that's all too visible in her mussed hair and the dark cut running along one cheek, which she only hopes won't leave any sort of scar.)_ For a moment, her stomach swerves anxiously—has she missed anything important?—but then she focuses enough to see that he's only just entering the sitting room of the flat, a shopping bag hanging from one arm.

Shopping. That's good, she reminds her frazzled thoughts. Shopping is normal. Healthy.

She rearranges the contents folder under her arm, moving to tuck it into a bookshelf, along with all of her other completed subjects. _(There are hundreds of them.) _She makes sure to keep an eye on Watson, though, and as she walks rapidly across the room to retrieve a hairbrush from her purse dangling from the coatrack, she never looks away.

If she was hopeful at the sight of him returning from a shopping trip, it's all downhill from there. Rather than taking the groceries into the kitchen, he drops them unceremoniously on the ground, and though she can only see him from behind, the slump in his shoulders and tilt of his head is painfully visible.

She positions the hairbrush at the base of her dark locks and begins to pull it through, slowly, methodically.

He moves towards the couch. His steps are vague, like a man sleepwalking.

It really is tangled, she reflects with mild frustration. Far too windy to go outside without any sort of hairspray. Her pull becomes firmer.

When he reaches the couch, he flops down heavily onto it, as though his muscles have been stretching themselves up to this point and are grateful for a release. His hands move up to cover his face, elbows braced on his knees.

Her teeth push down on her lower lip in a nervous bite, and the bitter taste of her lipstick fills her mouth. The strand of hair she's currently working on is clear—she moves onto the next section.

He runs his hands over his forehead, slowly.

She yanks the bristles through the stubborn tangles with increasing speed.

John's shoulders shake in a dry sob.

Mary tears through a particularly determined mat.

And it's like he breaks down from there. For what seems like several minutes on end—long enough, in any case, for her to finish taming her wavy hair—he simply shudders, his back heaving with heavy breaths that she can't hear from the soundless television screen. When he finally draws his hands away, leaving his face visible, his eyes are reddened, tearful. It's the first time she's gotten a good glimpse of his face, and if she expected some sort of sudden recognition, it's not there. Yes, he's vaguely familiar, but there's nothing about his appearance that's particularly outstanding.

No, he looks normal—absolutely normal; someone she could encounter in the street, push by without a second glance.

Maybe that's why it unsettles her so much to see him like this, in such a wreck.

It's a dull, stabbing reminder—if this is what John Watson is hiding, then perhaps others have things to cover, too. Maybe Reginald Walters had a reason for fighting so hard.

She feels intrusive.

But this is her job, and _damn it, _she's not going to let those personal feelings come up and encompass her again. So she straightens up, runs a hand over the back of her head and tucks the hairbrush back into her purse. The evening is stretching on—it must be past seven by now. She'll stay for another hour, she decides, and then go home. Hopefully Watson will have the sense to flip on the telly or something—anything other than the disturbing blankness that he's expressing now. The tears are past, and, instead, he gazes across the room with an entirely clear face—not serene, not peaceful, just _empty. _Empty of everything.

There are other things to be doing. She strides back to her desk, picks up the next folder in the stack and opens it, her eyes running over lines of text without drinking any of it in.

_(This does not feel right.)_

To be doing this, standing here, uncaring, passive, as a man rips himself apart from the inside out right in front of her eyes. Somebody should be helping him. Fixing him. Giving him whatever he needs to recover from this.

But Mycroft told her to watch out for _dangerous _behavior, potentially suicidal behavior. Not this. This, really, is to be expected—for God's sake, the man's best friend only just died yesterday, of course he's going to be distraught. There's no reason to believe that it should last.

That's comforting, somewhat, or at least she tells herself it is. Nevertheless, the next sixty minutes crawl by, each one seemingly unwilling to drag itself out. There are no windows in her office, but she can see the city darkening through Baker Street's windows, the night lights slowly flickering on, one at a time, until the last smoky rays of the already clouded sun dissipate entirely and the sky shines dark under a thick layer of smog.

He does start moving, eventually—doing things other than sitting and staring. Makes himself a pot of tea. _(She pretends not to notice how his hand instinctively twitches towards the handle of a second cup, as though he's momentarily, blissfully forgotten.) _Picks up the newspaper, ignores the _Suicide of Fake Genius _headline, seems to relax.

But there's still something in his face, something empty, distant. Or maybe he always looks like that. She doesn't know—she doesn't _know _him, and, for the first time, she's frustrated—frustrated with Mycroft for giving her an assignment like this merely because she was _available. _Somebody who actually _knows _him should be doing this—or, at the very least, someone who can identify what behavior could be considered "dangerous."

And yet for her to be designated as the right woman for something like this—it's ridiculous.

She ends up leaving ten minutes earlier than she told herself she would.

It's because she's tired, and has nothing else to do.

_(Not because she can't bear the look in his eyes.)_

_(Of course not.)_

* * *

Perhaps she'd told herself, foolishly, of course, that John Watson would be like every other task she ever received: forgotten the moment she crossed the threshold of her home.

He's not.

She goes through the usual movements—enters the restroom before anything else, removes her earrings and rinses her face of makeup, erasing Ms. Morstan and bringing Mary back. Perhaps she lingers just a bit more than usual, considering her reflection in the mirror, the long, light brown hair, full lips, solemn eyes. She looks younger, she decides, without the makeup. More like a fragrance model than a personal secretary, occasional kidnapper, and—apparently—spy.

_(What's he doing right now? Crying again, or has he really mastered himself for the night? Will he go straight to bed at a reasonable time, or break out the alcohol, deciding that tea's not enough? When he wakes up in the morning tomorrow, will he have that instant of forgetting?)_

It's _aggravating. _She physically jerks her head, like doing so will somehow dislodge the thoughts from her mind. They remain clenched firmly in place, unwilling to let her go, circling round and round. _Are you really that selfish? That you'll just forget about him now that you're home, disregard the fact that he doesn't have an escape, that he's stuck with himself and his memories? _

But this isn't _right. _She's not _supposed _to grow attached to him.

_(Those are Mycroft's morals, not yours.)_

And she's _not _attached to him, anyways. Attachment—it's a stupid, inaccurate word, and she finds herself growing annoyed that she even let it into her thoughts. She's concerned. Like she'd be for any other human being who had to go through as much as him. And maybe she's inventing them, but she could swear that the memories are beginning to come back, nothing vivid, just teasing around the edges of her mind—memories of the night, the one night when she met him. He wasn't like this, then. He was _alive. _A bit weary, yes, but of course he would be, he was an army veteran, for God's sake.

Determined, though. She had overheard every word he had exchanged with Mycroft _(Why are they so clear now? Has she been storing them away all this time, unconsciously, unknowingly?)_, and they were so vibrant, subtly excited. John Watson, however much he disguised it from everyone—most of all himself—was eager to be part of the shadow world centered around the Holmes brothers, that realm of crime and intrigue and night-cloaked gunshots. He was ready to see the battlefield again.

Mycroft's words, his most powerful words, rush back to her all at once, like a punch in the chest.

_You're not haunted by the war, Dr. Watson. You miss it. _

And now he's back to being a retired soldier, a veteran of a second war, one infinitely more brilliant and beautiful than Afghanistan.

Army doctor. Afghanistan. Psychosomatic limp. It's all coming back to her now.

_Stop thinking about it._

She makes up her mind to shower. That'll clear her mind, surely. Wash away the stress. Then she can brew herself a cup of tea, dig her most absurdly fluffy bathrobe out of the closet, curl up on the couch and watch the most recent episode of her favorite hospital drama.

She hopes that it will work, and it does.

_(She forgets when he can't.)_


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N** _It's wonderful to see that you've enjoyed the first bit so much- I hope I can fulfill your expectations for the next two chapters!_

**Thanks to** _Guest and Anylinde_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

_2._

He isn't on her mind the next morning, not when she gets up _(six a.m., never a moment off)_, grabs a quick piece of toast, brews a pot of coffee to take to work. In fact, it's rather like her mind is intentionally avoiding him—she focuses on something else, anything else, convincing herself that it's going to be an uneventful day; the files left from last night are deskwork, so she can take a rest after the insane chase yesterday. Of course, that means she's going to have all the more chance to look at _him, _but she won't let the thought cross her mind, not here, not at home. Not when she walks on the streets, either—it's raining today, and she makes sure to fetch a slim black umbrella, reminiscent of Mycroft's, before striding out.

It is June 18th, and the city is recovering.

The news headlines have moved on from the death of the detective that half of them only pretended to care about. It was the flavor of the day, and now things are back to detailing the usual mundane events of London city.

Some part of her is hoping that he's moved on, too, but of course he hasn't.

The TV screens are awake when she enters her room, and her eyes immediately fly to them, locating him. He's on the couch again, exhaustion rendering his eyes even more dark and hollow than before. It's surely just her imagination, but he seems thinner, too, even though that must be impossible. If she imagined that, somehow, he would heal overnight—sleep on it and work towards recovery, realign his thoughts—then she sorely, sorely misjudged.

But she won't think about that, won't focus. He's not headed for any buildings, and he's not reaching for a gun, either. So she purposefully looks away from the TV screens, moving over to her desk. A couple more folders have appeared on it since yesterday, and it's almost a relief to see the extra work—extra distractions, because the damned _guilt _is beginning to gnaw at her stomach again, a cruel bite of sickness that won't quite let her go.

_How can he expect her to do this? To completely ignore the man falling apart in front of her very eyes?_

She takes a long, shaky breath, closing her eyes for a long moment. When she opens them again, she tells herself, she won't look—she'll focus only on her desk and the papers waiting there, and give only the mandatory glances to the cameras on the flat.

_Deep breath. _

She opens her eyes, carefully, and somehow he's the first thing that greets her.

He's crying again, in that disturbing silence, and it's like actual needles are pricking her chest, seeding it with guilt and pity.

"Shit," Mary says softly, the first word she's spoken aloud all day. Then she hefts her umbrella up again and turns on her heel, walking back out the door before she so much as has a chance to set her coffee down.

* * *

She doesn't quite realize what she's doing until her fist comes into contact with the green-painted, rain-streamed wood of 221b Baker Street's front door.

Then she starts to think.

_Damn, what if he recognizes you? No, don't flatter yourself; if you barely remember him, there's no reason he should remember you. This isn't going against any of the assignment's boundaries—Mycroft never said a word about actual interaction—the rest of the tasks can still be finished by the end of the day, this is only the morning, I'm just checking in, I—_

What's she going to _say _to him?

And she's regretting it, almost hoping that he won't answer the door at all, that he'll ignore her and just stay staring at the wall, leaving her out here to shiver in the noisy, misting rain. And she can go back to her warm, dry office and watch him some more, because that's better than being here, _what is she doing here, she isn't supposed to be here—_

The door creaks open. Standing inside is a sweet-looking elderly woman with wide, dark eyes and a homely red dress, polka-dotted with white. Her face is kind but inquisitive. "Hello, dear, can I help you?"

Mary swallows, opens her mouth, and then she's spilling out random, improvisational words, trying desperately to string them together into something that makes sense. "I, um—I'm an old friend of John Watson's actually." Fake smile. She's good at them. "I heard about the tragedy recently, and I thought that it might be nice to check in on him, just make sure that he's doing alright. This is where he lives, right?" _Good, that's good. Just keep the words coming. Don't stumble. Be confident._

"Oh, well, that's nice, isn't it? He hasn't had anyone come to see him, not after Mr. Holmes—Sherlock's brother, you know, or I suppose you don't… well, I won't keep you." Despite her words, which Mary takes with a nod of gratitude, she _(probably Watson's housekeeper or something of the like) _continues to speak, sounding rather as though she hasn't had anyone to listen to her for the past few days. "I don't think I've ever met any of his old friends before, other than that Stamford fellow. Which one are you, then? Maybe he's brought you up."

"Probably not," she half-laughs, snapping her umbrella shut and wincing as it sprays the wall in cold droplets. "I, um… my name's Mary."

_What was that?_

She hasn't prepared a fake name, but it's still stupid, incredibly stupid—_Mary? Really? _

"That does actually ring a bell in this dusty old brain—Mary what?"

"Morstan. Mary Morstan." _You bloody idiot. _She wants to smack the heel of her hand to her forehead, but she doesn't, just keeps it at her side, plastering on a fake smile. "I know him from way back and just happened to be in town. I doubt he even remembers me, to be completely honest—it was more of a one-sided thing, I think, I fancied him a bit back in school."

A smile comes to the housekeeper's face, then, and she makes a small shooing motion with her hand. "I don't blame you, dear, he's a very handsome man. Go on, then, say hello. It would be wonderful if you could do something to cheer him up, he's been rather… dismal, since… Sherlock. As anyone would be, I'm sure, but…" She leans forward, almost conspiratorially. "I'm _worried _about him, a bit. So… just make sure he's staying safe, alright?"

"Of course."

With another beam, the old woman turns and heads back into what must be her own rooms, leaving Mary confronted with the staircase. She forces down another deep breath—there's no way out now—and starts up the stairs, each one creaking individually underfoot. She's going to have to tell him her real name, now, there's no way out. But there won't be any more stupid slip-ups, she promises herself that much.

She doesn't expect the door to be open, but she's barely rounded the top of the stairs when she catches sight of him, just down the hall, standing in the doorway and watching her steadily, with those wide, haunted eyes.

"I don't know any Mary Morstan," he says.

His voice is unfriendly, but also _normal. _Not choked up by sobs, not shaking or whimpering or overly dry. He just sounds… _irritated, _and she's regretting coming here more than ever. Yet something inside of her jumps at the sight of him standing up, of seeing his face slightly more alight, even in hostility—this is better, at least, than the numbness that apparently swamps him when he's alone.

"Well, I wouldn't expect you to." Her laugh is so obnoxiously girlish that it grates even on her own ears. She takes a step closer, and he moves back. "It was a long time ago…"

"I _never knew _a Mary Morstan," he continues, his voice gaining an edge, and that's when it hits her—_shit, he's paranoid. _Of course he is. After Moriarty, and after Sherlock—it's only natural that he doesn't trust a stranger in his flat. And the smartest thing she can do right now is probably whip right around and hightail it out of there before he somehow gets the truth out of her, but she's not letting herself—after all, he's not going to be able to talk information out of her, even accidentally. She's a personal assistant to the most influential man in the United Kingdom, for God's sake. She can hold her own with Dr. John Watson.

"Well, you can't expect to remember everyone, can you?" She makes up her mind not to step any closer, not to make him feel threatened. She brings a static smile to her face, holding it carefully as she continues. "I'm sorry if you'd rather be left alone, I only wanted to make sure that everything was alright…"

His eyes flash—they're a fascinating color, she notes absently, a strange shade captured somewhere between blue and hazel—and for a moment it seems like he's about to tell her to get out, that he doesn't want to hear anything she has to say, but then he exhales, and his shoulders sink, his anger following suit.

"I'm sorry—I'm just so exhausted lately, after… everything. I don't mean to be… here, come in… I could make a cup of tea, if you'd like…"

"Oh, no, you don't have to…" But he's already retreating back into the room, and she supposes she has no choice but to follow, her feet dragging slightly on the ground.

It's odd to see the flat in person, rather than through the muted colors of Mycroft's cameras. There's the couch in the corner—the one that she's seen him sit on for hours on end, it seems like—and the tall windows, which he's now pulling the curtains away from. Perhaps it would be a nice gesture on a normal day, but all it succeeds in doing is making the room feel even colder, since the glass panes are streaked with pale rain, and it continues to hammer against them as he moves towards the kitchen.

"I'm fine, really," she insists, tugging on her sleeves self-consciously as she stands in the middle of the room.

"No, please, it's… my pleasure. Go ahead and take a seat, we can… catch up." He tries to smile, for a moment, then gives up and turns away. She's left to wander over to the sofa, sweat slicking her palms. She has to make up a story, and quick. _(Why is this so different from all her usual jobs under disguise? There's some other sort of pressure here, perhaps the fact that she's passively working against what Mycroft told her to do—yes, that must be it.) _

A schoolmate. A schoolmate who was passing through London for business—a freelance writer, a journalist who stumbled upon the story and read his name in it. That will be sufficient, surely. It's not like she intends to stay long enough to have to come up with anything more in-depth. Now that she _is _here, though, she's not quite sure what she's trying to achieve—a visit from a stranger isn't about to make him feel better. She resolves to improvise, make it through like she really is just a random old classmate. Then she'll leave, return to her usual observations and never do anything stupid and bold like this again.

Yes. That's a plan—a solid plan, and she knows how to work with solid plans, much better than the wavering, tentative motions that she's been acting on lately. Her fingers tap along her knees as she waits for him to brew the tea, and it occurs to her that maybe he's intentionally spending a long time in the kitchen, where he doesn't have to look at her. The guilt rounds on her again, thrashing against the walls of her stomach, but she shoves it away internally, and manages to pull a genial expression back on by the time he returns.

"Here," he murmurs, settling a china cup onto the coffee table before her.

"Thanks." Her hands cradle the cup delicately, savoring its warmth as relief from the pressing chill around and inside the flat. John nods, then moves to his own chair, sitting in it stiffly. She's never seen him use that one before—it was always the couch, which she's occupying now.

"I'm sorry you came at… such a bad time," he says, and the fake smile twitches over his face again. He looks as if he's trying to make himself laugh, but can't quite manage it. "I, uh… well, yeah, you must have heard in the papers. I lost my friend… my best friend, just a couple of days ago, actually."

"Sherlock Holmes," she agrees, keeping the words casual, as though they're not repeated several times a day by her employer, like their sound isn't practically background noise to her at this point. "I heard he was a genius."

"Absolutely brilliant," John confirms, taking a long, slow sip of his own tea. Her hands fly to the cup placed before her, and she raises it to her lips, wincing as it burns them. It's sweet, she processes as soon as the scorch has died away—two sugars, at her best guess. Not her preference, and odd of him not to ask, but he can't really be blamed for absentmindedness at this point.

"Consulting… detective, right?" She has to be careful not to display her knowledge. If he even begins to get suspicious, there's a chance of him recognizing her as Anthea, and then everything is completely blown. So she keeps her tone light, vaguely ignorant.

"Consulting detective," he confirms, his eyes staring past Mary, into the smiley face-painted wall behind her. "The only one in the world."

Somewhere in the room, a clock ticks quietly.

She shifts and takes another gulp of the tea to waste time. There's no real way to make light conversation, not when Holmes's death has taken over the life of his flatmate so thoroughly. And it's not as if she can just begin chatting about the weather—the demise of the friend is a heavy topic in that way, she realizes; it overshadows everything, renders itself impossible to bring up and the only thing acceptable to be discussed at the same time. Paradoxical. "Are you… doing alright, then?"

"Honestly?" His eyes flicker down, moving instead to stare at the depths of his dark tea with alarming intensity. "No. I can't… I still can't believe it. He was buried yesterday, I guess they wanted to get it over with quick—I guess _I _did. But I just—I can't believe that he's _never coming back. _I keep waiting, I suppose, somehow… for him to open the door, walk in, flop down and decide he's bored and start shooting the damned wall… that's what he'd do, you know, always crazy things like that. Hid body parts in the refrigerator, for God's sake. I wouldn't mind a million corpses stuffed in that damn appliance if it meant I could see him again."

His voice cracks, and she has nothing to say. That—that was the most he's said this entire time, and it's clearly costly. She sees his eyes glisten and quickly looks away as they simultaneously take long, painfully hot sips of tea.

It occurs to her then that she could tell him the truth about Sherlock.

What would the look on his face be? Would he straighten up, be able to _really _smile, speak with actual strength in his voice…? Or his reaction could be the opposite. Cold and furious and disbelieving. Both are reasonable, she supposes, and both are to be avoided at all costs. The whole _reason _Sherlock is hiding is for John's safety, and she doesn't want to shatter that now, doesn't want to put either of them in danger.

Still, it hurts—it hurts a _lot _to see him like this.

"Well, I…" To her surprise, her cup is nearly empty, only a thin layer of darkly transparent liquid running over its cream-colored bottom. "I was just stopping by, I suppose I'd best be on my way."

"Wait," he says as she begins to rise. "Are you in town for long?"

She frowns slightly, wondering what direction this could possibly be headed. "Well—yes, actually, quite a while. I'm here for… an extended vacation."

"Do you think we might be able to meet up again, then?"

_What? _Why would he want that? He doesn't have any external motivation, like her—she's invaded his home and intruded on his emotions and violated his privacy, and he wants to see her _again? _She bites her lip and feels her shoulders contract in a practically involuntary shrug. "That would be… fine, I suppose, but—not that that wouldn't be wonderful, but why would you—"

"I'm sorry," he cuts in, ducking his head down again. His knuckles whiten around the handle of the teacup. "I just… well, I've somehow ended up saying more to you than… anyone else I've talked with, even my therapist." He actually does laugh this time, but it's dry, cracked-sounding. "It's a little strange to just leave you like this, after that and all. But I don't need to take up any more of your time… thanks for stopping by, I guess it was nice to be able to talk to someone."

"Oh…" _Even my therapist. _And she wonders then whether, perhaps, Mycroft would _want _her to do this—watching him on his own is one thing, but if he's willing to actually _talk _to her, talk to her about how he feels and maybe, just _maybe _if he ever has any dark thoughts on his mind… dangerous thoughts…

This could be the perfect way to do what Mycroft wants.

"Sure," she finds herself agreeing. "Yeah—absolutely. Say I come by here… same time tomorrow?"

"Perfect," he agrees. "Like I said, I… really can't express how nice it is to be able to talk to somebody. Thank you, Mary… I'll see you soon, then?"

"See you soon," she confirms, and lifts her umbrella in a wave as she stands up and starts for the door, keeping her smile neutral even as excitement leaps inside of her. This is more than she could have asked for—trust is a much better tool than security cameras, as she's learned over time. And as she moves down the staircase, out the door and into the suddenly warmer-feeling rain, there's no regret at all.

She feels triumphant.

_(And if, perhaps, it's just a little too much to be solely from a business advantage—well, she's not going to let herself consider anything like that, is she?)_

* * *

She doesn't try to pretend that he looks better on the cameras after talking to her. In fact, the moment she sets foot in her office again, she sees with a lurch of disappointment that he's returned to his empty blankness. But it's something, _something _to know that she's going to see him again, and this isn't all she can do. She's going to meet up with him again, talk to him again, and maybe then she'll be able to help him get better.

After all, the sooner he recovers completely, the sooner Mycroft will drop this assignment and she'll be able to return to her usual work _(and there's nothing bittersweet about that, not one single bit; it'll be a relief on every level.)_

That night, she sleeps much better, and wakes up with a spring in her step. She makes up her mind not to go to work first, but rather linger at home for a bit longer and then head straight over to Baker Street. She occupies the time by fiddling about with her makeup—making it as un-Anthea-like as possible. It seems like the way to guarantee that is to go about it in a minimalist way, and by the time the clock warns her that she should be on her way, her reflection is much more Mary than it is Ms. Morstan. There's some gloss on her lips, a hint of blush in her cheeks and a few swipes of pale gold eyeliner, but other than that, her face is completely clear. Natural. She doesn't really mind how it looks, actually.

The housekeeper is even more warm and welcoming than before, this time offering to take Mary's umbrella, which she's kept with her due to the remaining light drizzle of rain from the pale clouds overhead, and advising that she "take her coat off and stay awhile." Mary complies with a grateful smile, and when she goes up to see John, he has a smile, too—nothing big, but it seems like he's truly glad to see her.

She stays a bit longer this time than she did yesterday—more like a half hour than ten minutes. There's still sugar in the tea, but she resolves not to question it. This is a delicate process, almost like handling an animal. If she lashes out, offends him somehow, then she might lose any sort of contact with him.

She makes sure to catalogue his behaviors and mannerisms in her mind, charting them away from Mycroft, even as some part of her insists that she's never going to end up telling any of this to him. It's true enough that John seems to be going anywhere but downhill; his attitude is notably elevated compared to the previous day.

After they sit and talk for a while, it's concluded in the same way—she says that she has work to do, he asks if she can stop by again, she agrees with a spark of achievement.

And so it goes. Day after day, never skipping one. On the fourth day, the elderly woman—Mrs. Hudson, as she's learned from John, and _the landlady, not the housekeeper—_brings them up a tray of homemade biscuits that she apparently "doesn't have room for and only made on a silly whim." On the fifth day, the tea that John makes is clear of sugar. On the sixth, she tells some depthless anecdote that makes him laugh—_genuinely _laugh, not the passionless chuckles of before. He grins, his eyes light up, his shoulders shake—it's utterly wonderful to see, and she's proud of herself, proud of the fact that she might actually be assisting his happiness.

But it's not until the seventh day, a week from the first time she met him, that something truly _big _happens.

She's just standing up to leave—teacup drained, coat slung over her shoulder—speaking over her shoulder as she turns towards the door. "Same time tomorrow, right?"

"Actually… I was thinking of something else," he says.

It's unexpected enough that she turns around, her eyes wide and questioning. "What?" she asks bluntly, utterly surprised. "What do you mean?"

He looks away, but there's a smile playing around the edges of his mouth. "Well… this is a little ridiculous, you meeting me in my own home over and over. I want to… take you somewhere tomorrow, instead, if you don't mind. Just so that we can get out of this wretched place."

"Alright… sure, I suppose. What sort of place do you have in mind?"

"There's this restaurant." He glances up at her, reaching over to scratch at the side of his neck self-consciously. "Angelo's. They serve a… really wonderful dinner there."

It hits her at that moment that he's not just talking about another friendly get-together. "Oh," is all she says at first, internally cursing herself and him and just about everyone else on the whole damn planet. Her stomach turns itself completely over. _How did you let this happen? This wasn't supposed to happen. This wasn't part of the stupid plan! _But she keeps her cool, and the only real way to do that is to agree—so agree she does, nodding slowly. "That sounds great, yeah. I could… drop by here around seven, and we could go?"

"It's a date," he agrees, relief and satisfaction washing over his face. She waves a hasty farewell and hurries out the door, almost tripping over her own feet and mentally berating herself in every way imaginable.

_Damn it, what have you gotten yourself into now? _


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N** _Last one, hope you enjoyed!_

**Thanks to** _jacquesgenevieve__, Sherlockreader, and Anylinde_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc._

* * *

_3._

She wakes up the next day to sunlight. It's surprising, almost disorienting to feel the tentative shine slipping past her window blinds, brushing gently over her bed and the tangle of sheets and blankets that she's nested in. For a moment, she thinks that perhaps she's slept in, that it's already noon, the only time that the sun usually has the power to pierce through the perpetual veil of smog that crests London's sky. But then it hits her that it's simply _sunny _out—the clouds are gone, if only for a brief while, and, as she learns when she sits up and draws the blinds fully away from her window, people are taking advantage of it. Strolling down the street in two and threes, laughing, talking.

It is June 27th, and the city has forgotten.

There's not a whisper of grief in any of the pedestrians' expressions, and Mary wonders vaguely whether John has been put into a similar good mood by the surprisingly cheerful weather. It will be nice, she decides, if he's more animated for their—

_(Oh, God, she'd completely forgotten.)_

She nearly trips over herself getting out of bed, and is halfway to the phone, words forming in her mind—_I can't, I'm sorry, something's come up, I'm busy, it just won't work—_when it occurs to her that she really _doesn't _have an excuse to avoid this. Not for him, or for herself. Why is it so bad to just let herself go out every once in a while, after all?

No, _that's _crazy. She's not in the kind of job that allows for relationships, anyways. And even if she was, would she really choose John Watson, of all people? A depressed ex-army doctor with reverse PTSD and a recently dead best friend?

_(Maybe.)_

Taking a deep breath, she lowers herself down to sit on the ground, running one hand through her hair. One date, that's all it is. Just _one date, _and then she can tell him it won't work out, avoid it if he asks again. She could also, as she now theorizes, act awful enough that he won't _want _to see her again. No, but he has to see her again, just not in _this _way, if she's still trying to get information from him…

_You're acting like a child. Calm down._

She can shower. Of course, she already did last night, but it'll be good, it'll clear her mind, and that's exactly what she needs right now. Rising again, shakily, she stumbles out the door of her bedroom and moves to the bathroom across the hall, her fingers slipping over the light switch and then the handles of the faucet, turning the water up as hot as it gets. Her pajamas pool around her ankles as she pulls them down, then steps out and slips under the water.

It's a relief from the moment it hits her skin. Too hot, yes, almost burning, but wonderful for the fact that it wipes anything and everything else from her mind, rearranges and calibrates everything so that she can start down a logical train of thought once more. She takes a deep breath through the hot streams running down her cheeks and forehead, and tries to mull over things again, more reasonably.

She's already agreed to go on a date with John. A single date. It won't hurt anything—it might, just _might, _even let her get even closer to him, help her understand his emotional state.

_(You've been telling yourself that every damn time, you idiot. Whenever you get closer to him, you just say that it'll help you gather more information, but there's a limit, there's a boundary that you're about to cross, if you haven't already.)_

And then, after that, she'll just say that it's not working out, and not go through it again. Simple. Straightforward. She'll be able to keep seeing him, and no problems will be caused.

Before all of this, though, she'll go to work. She barely has anything to do at last check, but Mycroft might have added to her tasks since last night, and it'll be good to give them a look-over, so that he doesn't think she's slacking. She's been working doubly hard lately, to get everything done while still taking a couple of hours a day to go and see John. Mycroft probably knows about her visits, at this point, even though he hasn't mentioned them to her—the man finds everything out eventually—and she doesn't want him to forbid her from going to Baker Street.

She tries not to think about how nonsensically she's behaving. How it shouldn't be a problem what Mycroft thinks, since it's his commands that she's obeying anyways, and if her job doesn't involve such close contact, then she should drop it without thinking twice. She still tells herself, for some reason, that she's doing this all for work.

That's a joke at this point, but she's happy to deny it.

* * *

The day goes by with alarming speed, and before she's ready, she finds herself back at home, sitting in front of a makeup mirror with her hair brushed and hanging in neat waves over her neck and shoulders, gazing at her clear face. She's not entirely sure how to go about doing this—she's been on dates before, of course she has, but those were years ago, and she's forgotten how to look like herself, rather than a smirking, dark-dressed facsimile with overdone makeup and a shadowed demeanor. Normally, it wouldn't be that much of a problem, but John knows who the real Mary is—she's shown herself to him, involuntarily, every damned time that they met. And she regrets it now—regrets it more than she can stand—but that doesn't mean it can be taken back.

Just how casual of a look is expected of her, anyways? He mentioned a restaurant, Angelo's. Italian—Italian places can be anywhere on the scale of formality, dammit. She'll have to find some sort of medium and hope it's okay.

With this in mind, she starts to create a new mask for herself.

She starts with the eyes. Darkening them—not too extremely, but enough for them to stand out. She does the same with her lashes, so that they're thick and curved, lending emphasis to the comparatively glittery quality of her eyes. Then the cheeks—the merest touch of rosy caramel blush, subtle enough to look natural, and a swipe of light gloss over her lips. It looks good, she decides—or at least good enough for this.

Her outfit goes along with the dark, simple theme. A black camisole under a thin, loose long-sleeved shirt of the same color, hemmed below the breast and ever so slightly transparent, and plain dress pants. She finishes with onyx stud earrings and tall boots. The entire thing takes nearly an hour, over which she experiences several surges of uncertainty and frustration, but she's happy enough with the final product. Hopefully he'll be, too.

_(Why should that even matter?)_

Despite the lightness of the morning, the color outside now is a charcoal grey, the first hints of sunset the only colors to pierce through the overwhelmingly dark shade. She keeps her spirits bright, though, reinforcing them with an unnecessary spring in her step as she moves along the sidewalk.

She takes a cab to Baker Street, and arrives at two minutes after seven—he's waiting outside, she sees with a jolt in her stomach, and barely thinks as she pays the driver and steps out. A flood of self-consciousness suddenly washes across her—are her clothes too fancy? Does she look like an idiot? What was she _thinking, _ever coming here in the first place?—but it's all background noise, because she has to focus on smiling and waving to him, on looking like she doesn't have any anxieties beyond the usual ones of a woman on a first date.

"You look nice," she comments superficially, taking in the fact that he looks no different than he did whenever she'd visit him inside. Perhaps his shirt is just a bit more fresh-pressed, and his posture is notably improved, but other than that, nothing. Still, he does look nice. He always has, really, except for the first day, when he appeared to be a walking corpse.

_"I _look nice?" he replies, with a genuine life. "Mary, you're gorgeous."

She really has no way to reply to that, so she settles for a nervous giggle and a bashful glance downwards. "You know the way, then," she mumbles, quite ready to be done with awkwardly standing on a street corner.

"Alright. Shall we?"

She half-expects, with a lurch of dread, that he's about to hold his hand out to her, but he doesn't, just turns and begins to stride along. She keeps up easily—his pace is casual, relaxed. She forces herself to behave the same way—she's had a lot of practice with acting, so it's relatively easy to school her features into a neutral expression. Her insides, on the other hand, have the opposite idea; they seem to be leaping about all around her chest and stomach with no thought given to their proper behavior. They exchange a few bits of small talk over the course of the walk, but she doesn't catalogue any of it, only keeps up responses in order to not appear uninterested.

Angelo's, as it turns out, is very casual indeed. The fanciest thing about it are the candles perched on each table, which don't quite work to maintain a romantic atmosphere, but she's glad about that. It's comfortable, homely, and that's all that really matters.

"I know it doesn't look like much," John says almost apologetically as they slip through the doors, "but it really is wonderful food."

Mary nods quickly. "It looks fine," she promises, and she means it. John smiles and slides into a chair near the front window. She obediently takes the seat opposite, and they've barely settled in before a large man with a big beard and a bigger grin is beside them, offering plastic-coated menus.

"Dr. Watson!" he booms. "Oh, it's good to see you out and about again, very good."

"It feels nice," John replies easily. "Nice to see you, too, Angelo."

"And who's this lovely young woman?"

Mary looks up quickly from the menu she's been examining, about to answer, but John replies before she can.

"Mary Morstan. We went to school together."

She almost corrects him before she remembers that he still believes that—it's the lie she first fed him. So she suffices for a swallow and a nod, hoping that she looks friendly enough. Angelo offers a meaty hand that she delicately shakes, then he glances over his shoulder at the other tables in the restaurant, all of which are rather full. It's a busy night, with the bubble of conversations and the clink of silverware filling the room up to its roof.

"I'd best be off, then, lots of customers. Have a wonderful supper!"

He bustles off, leaving John and Mary in somewhat awkward silence. "So…" she begins, flipping the page of the menu for no real reason. "You know the owner?"

"Oh, yeah, he was an old friend of—" John freezes, then forces down a deep breath before continuing in a notably lower voice. "Of Sherlock's. We came here the first night we met, actually—never ate anything, got interrupted by this insane taxi that we ended up chasing… I thought it was the craziest night of my life, but, of course, that was because I'd only just met him…" He trails off, shaking his head. He's not smiling anymore. "I really do miss him."

And, suddenly, fiercely, desperately, she _wants to tell him. _It's stupid and irrational, and it could very well get her fired or worse, but she can't stand it anymore—the knowledge that she could cure that blank look on his face that haunts her so insistently is tearing at her, and she has to tell him, she just has to.

"Have you ever considered—that maybe he's not dead?"

The words spill out of her mouth without her trying, and her stomach immediately sinks. _That's it. You did it. You said it, you failed, and now there's nothing left to do. _She waits for the shock to spread across his face, for his jaw to drop and his eyes to widen, but there's nothing—just a slight shake of the head, his gaze shifting down to the candlelight shadows dancing over the tabletop.

"He's dead. I mean, it's nice to imagine otherwise, I guess, but… he's _gone. _I saw his body… I'm never going to _stop _seeing his body—whenever I close my eyes, for God's sake—" John cuts himself off, shaking his head. "No, we don't need to talk about him right now, okay? I don't want to dwell on him anymore… I'm sorry, but I just—I'm just not going to think about it."

"That's fine, that's fine." Her breath is coming just a bit too quick to be natural. Did she actually get away with that? She drags in a slow lungful of air, gripping her elbows tightly under the table. "I just…"

_I just don't want to keep things from you anymore._

And somehow it's all falling apart—all the lies that she's worked so hard to maintain are falling and shattering around her, and she feels so _vulnerable,_ exposed in front of his intent blue-hazel eyes. She doesn't belong here, she needs to get out, and yet—and yet, what is there to do?

"Mary?" he asks, leaning in a bit closer. "Are you… alright?"

"Anthea," is all she says in response. Even before the name is completely out of her mouth, she lifts a hand to her forehead, pressing her fingers to her eyes, trying to block him out. She keeps talking, though, forcing the words out one at a time. "My name's Mary, I told you the truth about that. But the first time you met me… I told you my name was Anthea."

For the longest time, there's only silence, and she half wants to spring to her feet and just flee the restaurant, flee John, return to watching him silently from the screens without him ever knowing. But he'd try to contact Mycroft, then, and then her boss would know… hell, he probably knows already. She can't leave John, though. She won't leave him hanging like this—because surely then he'll be even more wrecked than he was when she first came to see him.

"Anthea," he finally repeats. It takes her a moment to realize why there are chills slinking down her spine, then she realizes—she's never heard her false name in his voice before, only her real one. She decides that he sounds much nicer when he's not calling her by a pseudonym. "Mycroft Holmes's assistant."

"I'm sorry," she says simply. She is sorry, too. If not for herself, then at least for him—she was an idiot from the very beginning, to raise his hopes like this, put him under the impression that he was escaping Sherlock when, in reality, she was only holding him tighter than ever to the clutch of the Holmes brothers. Impeding progress instead of encouraging it.

"Anthea." Again. She wishes he would stop. "Yeah, I can see it now. Is that what this is, then? Is that what this always was? Just here on a mission for your boss?"

It scares her that he doesn't sound the least bit bitter. Maybe it should be the other way around—maybe she should find it encouraging—but she can't help but feel as though this is the calm before the storm, like he's about to blow up in her face and tell her everything she did wrong, all the reasons why he hates her. Because surely he must hate her now. She expects him to hate her—any reasonable person, surely, would hate her.

"He told me to watch you." She drags the words out, feeling sicker and sicker by the second. "After Sherlock fell. He wanted me to make sure that you weren't too… damaged." It's impossible to look at him, to take her hand away from her eyes. She's hiding. Pathetic.

_(She's so pathetic.)_

"Sherlock." There it is—spirit in his tone. Sharp, fiery, insistent. "Tell me, then—you said something about him being alive, didn't you? You asked me whether I'd ever considered if he was alive, and Mycroft wouldn't bother to send someone after me unless he knew something I didn't—he couldn't care less about me, but Sherlock did, Sherlock cared, so why would I even be on his radar unless—"

He cuts off so abruptly that she looks up reflexively. And when she does lock eyes with him, it's like he's a whole new man, an entirely different John Watson—a thousand times more animated, surely, than she's ever seen him before. Almost manic. And yet at the same time, there's a steadiness in his eyes—an almost frightening steadiness, burning and intent.

"Do you want to know?" she asks wearily. She figures he has the right to know, at this point—yes, he does. She messed up, not him, and she should be the one to pay the consequences. Mycroft will be furious… beyond furious. Maybe it's mere paranoia, but she can't even be entirely sure that she'll escape with her life, after something like this. She knows that he's had people killed before, even if he's never told her personally. But maybe that is overreaction—he doesn't use murder as _punishment, _only as a safety precaution.

Nevertheless, she feels sick.

"I—" John begins, then bites back his half-formed words. A long moment drags itself painfully by, during which all she can see are his eyes. Slowly, the flame in them dims, and his brows crease in weary stress, chin tilting down slightly. "No. Don't—don't tell me. I'm not going to do this anymore—to dwell on him. You helped me out of that, believe it or not—Mary, or Anthea, or whoever you are. I am completely honest when I say I might be dead by now if not for you."

Her stomach twists. Does that mean she's done what Mycroft asked after all? But, no, she shouldn't be concerned about _that—_she hasn't done a single damn thing right in all of this, and seeking to find something she didn't mess up on won't dull the reality of that, no matter how much she may wish so.

"You'd have found a way to keep going," she insists. "You're strong. Stronger than you think."

And that, she decides, is the perfect parting note. She begins to stand up, only realizing now how absurdly shaky her legs have become, staring at the tabletop once more. The backs of her eyes are burning, for some strange reason, and she knows that she has to get out of there before she does something stupid like show how much she regrets all of this—show, for once, her genuine emotions.

But something's holding her down. Another hand, fingers pressing gently on her wrist, warm and steady and anchoring.

"Wait," John says.

She glances up through her overdone lashes, meeting his gaze once more. He's not smiling—not with his mouth—but there's a tenderness in his eyes that jars her slightly, causes her to bite down on her tongue and freeze in place.

"Let's not think about this now, alright?" he suggests. "You've done your job for… for Mycroft. There's no need to keep an eye on me, so you can forget about that. Just… just focus on having a night off, alright? We can worry about the rest of it later…"

"I can't," she says automatically, but she's not moving away. "I'm not going to do this, John—"

"Mary. Please. For now, just have dinner with me, alright?"

She shouldn't do this. She should stand up straight, turn around and walk right out of the restaurant, down the street, take a cab to her office and pick up her paperwork and go back to doing what she's supposed to, and yet…

"Alright." Without any reason, she settles back down into the chair. He releases her hand, and she brings it to her lap, folding it under the other. "Fine. For now… let's have dinner."

He smiles, and the candlelight dances like a mirage in his impossibly colored eyes. "I couldn't ask for anything better."


End file.
